The Break
by footshooter
Summary: After the funeral, Batman goes AWOL and the Joker gets bored. The ending of this is kinda weird, even by my standards... Swearing, bloody violence and all that jazz.


The Bat was missing and the Joker was bored.

He'd not seen, or heard anything from Batman for at least three days now (since _her_ funeral, his brain unhelpfully added) and it was starting to wear a bit thin. He wanted the Bat to come out to play (not Bruce Wayne, he can't be someone so _shallow_, he just _can't_ be the man who's sniffling face had been plastered all over the papers. "_She was my oldest friend"_), he was sick of the endless _nothing_.

The Joker had spent a couple of days terrorising (and knifing) the hench-clowns, but that in itself contained problems. They weren't in unlimited supply, after all. Gotham had it's fill of nutters but it wasn't endless and he did need them to do the _boring_ work.

So he was wandering the streets with a gun.

It was a cold night and the clouds were dark and heavy above him. The Joker could see his breath in front of him when he walked. He licked his lips and could taste the atmosphere, the cold biting his nose and chilling his lungs. He wondered whether it was about to snow. He hoped it was. It would add a little more chaos, and the pure _white_ would accentuate Gotham's blood (and the blown up buildings) where it lay on the street.

He hummed as he walked. He wasn't planning anything. Wasn't even looking for anything. He was just wandering, searching for _something_ to bide his time with while Batsy pulled himself together (got over _her_. Why did he even need her? He had _him_ after all. They were meant to be, not that simpering little DA hanging off Harvey Dent's arm) and got back out on the streets (soon he'd see, of course he would) to take out some of Gotham's criminal underclass (to _dance _with him, like he was meant to do). Kicking, punching, hurting (he could take it out on the Joker, that's what he's there for, after all. It's what was meant to be. He's _not _just a punchbag, it's so much more).

A lone snowflake drifted from the sky and landed on his nose. The Joker stuck out his tongue, trying to lick it off, but he couldn't reach it no matter where he moved his head. It melted off of its own accord as the sky sent more down to join it. Not as pretty as falling ash, but it would do.

The Joker felt _good_. He felt like something was going to go right.

A woman walked down the street, clutching her purse to her when she saw the silhouette of a man in the shadows. A giggle escaped his mouth, and he pulled the sawn off shotgun from over his shoulder. She froze when she heard the giggle, and he stepped out of the shadows into the lamp-lit half of the street.

"Hey honey, how you doing?"

She screamed, the sound echoing through the buildings, sharp and harsh. The Joker smiled.

"Hey, you should _calm down _a little."

She turned on her heel and began to run, so the Joker shot her, shrapnel ricocheting through her back, shoulders, arms and upper legs. He hadn't even aimed. He _liked _that gun. She fell to the ground and started bleeding out into the dusting of snow in the road, turning it a _wonderful _shade of crimson.

The Joker skipped over to her, pulling her head up via her hair as she whimpered pitifully.

"You shouldn't've ran, baby. My trigger finger gets a little, ah, itchy when I have a moving target."

He hoisted the gun back up over his shoulders and continued walking, leaving her to bleed to death in the cold. The gun was a satisfying weight over his shoulder but the knife in his pocket cried out to him (oh baby, I love you _so_ much more than guns, you're so much more personal, just not tonight. Not yet.).

The Joker moved into a more heavily populated area, and people began to talk. He didn't know whether it was the walk, or the suit, or the hair, or the make-up (not just a pretty face, heh), or (most probably) the gun, but people started to whisper. And then someone screamed.

It was a trigger.

He started firing shots, willy-nilly, not bothering who, or where, he hit. He just sauntered through the streets quite contentedly firing off shots when he felt like it. The act didn't even compute with him, not really (oh Batsy, where are you, come and _stop_ me!), he was just doing. The screaming and the red snow and the draining life… just nothing.

And then he saw a man who looked like a cunt. He was wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase and was hiding behind a woman who was quivering, her eyes wide and startled. Fight or flight (uh, neither, just wait to die, darling). The Joker licked his lips and motioned for her to move. She staggered sideways before the man could notice and the Joker fired, aiming at his stomach. The woman was hit by some of the shot, but it wasn't enough to do much more than hurt. The Joker was suddenly jealous of her pain.

He skipped over to the businessman, propped up against the wall, as pale as the Joker's make-up with his hands clenched across his stomach. He looked up into the Joker's eyes, fear clouding his own.

"Hi."

His gaze flickered down to the wound and he grimaced, the expression and motions over exaggerated.

"Ouch. Don't worry, that was nothing personal. You just, ah, looked like a bit of a dick."

He crouched down and licked his lipstick smeared lips, smacking them together, tongue running up the scars. The man in front of him looked fairly disgusted. The Joker looked around at the destruction he'd caused and another giggle escaped his throat involuntarily. Everyone thought he did it to freak people out, but normal people, _boring_ people, were always wrong.

The Joker's eyes snapped back to the man.

"Y'see, even a guy like _me _has principles. You shouldn't hide behind ladies." He motioned over his shoulder to the woman staggering away down the lane. "You should just take what's coming to ya. Because if it's coming, it's gonna come."

The man groaned, and snarled.

"Fuck. You." He ground out from between teeth.

The Joker frowned, "Uh-huh. Right. Well, yeah, you're not exactly my _type_" (No wings) "but sure, you're pretty enough. Especially when you're _mad_."

He laughed, and the man looked faintly disgusted.

"No response? Hmm. You're no fun."

The Joker grabbed the mans hands and pulled them away from the bloody, pulsating holes in his stomach. He surveyed the damage.

"Hm. Nice."

His eyes flickered back up to the mans white face. He was trying to hide the pain he was in, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

"Let's see if you're that pretty inside, shall we?"

The Joker patted a hand against the mans cheek as he pulled out a knife, leaving a bloody handprint on the pale flesh below. He plunged the knife into his stomach, and dragged sideways creating a gaping gash which immediately started to leak blood, ruby blossoming to the surface. The man screamed in pain, properly screamed, and the Joker smiled.

"Shh, shh, shh. Come on now."

He pulled the sides of the gash apart, and poked around in the hole he'd made, feeling the slippery texture of his intestines and pulling them out so the man could see. He dropped them and then frowned.

"Not pretty. Not. At. All."

He shrugged his shoulders and stood up, leaving the man trembling and bleeding out, tears running down his face and smearing the bloody handprint that was the Joker's mark as he continued down the street.

He shot out a few windows, out of sheer boredom, and tossed the gun into a skip when he'd used up all of his ammo. It was a shame, he mused, it was a _nice_ gun. But he had his knives, and that's all he needed.

A weight hit him in the back and knocked him roughly to the floor. His heart soared because only one person could be that sneaky (only one person felt like that). He twisted his body around and came face to face with the (his) Bat.

He smiled, and Batman's dark eyes filled with hate. He growled, and punched the Joker in the stomach, bringing his knee up at the same time to land itself in the Joker's groin. The pleasure of the pain mingled with the nausea it brought and he started laughing.

"Haven't," he panted through gritted teeth, "Haven't seen you around… much, lately, Batsy. Been busy?"

Batman punched him in the face, and the Joker rolled on to his side. Batman stood up and aimed a kick into his stomach, then backed off. The Joker didn't need to be a genius to tell that his heart wasn't in it.

He stumbled to his feet, looking at Batman through his hair as he attempted to straighten up.

"Hey, ah, I don't wanna be offended or anything but you don't seem to be putting your _back_ into this."

"Fuck you."  
>"Y'know, you're the second person to say that to me tonight. Is it the aftershave? I knew choosing Lynx was a good move. Although it is supposed to attract <em>girls<em>, not suits and Bats."

"Just… why?"  
>"Why what?"<p>

"You've left 9 people to _die_ tonight! Why?"

"Um, I got bored."  
>"You got bored?" Batman growled, dangerously.<p>

"Well, yeah. I mean, you've not been out to _play_ for a while. I can't keep messing with the hench-clowns. I'll have nothing left."

The Joker regarded Batman more closely, narrowing his eyes at the black streaks that were travelling down the Bat's cheeks. He wasn't crying, he couldn't be. It was the snow. (The Joker didn't want to break him yet. Why was he realising this now?)

"You killed her," Bruce whispered.

The Joker frowned and walked forwards towards Batman. He stopped directly in front of him and cocked his head. Bruce lashed out and pushed him back, and the Joker allowed him too, staggering back a few steps.

"You _killed_ her."

The Joker made a soothing hush sound in his throat and reached out, putting his arms around Bruce's back. This wasn't Batman, this was Bruce Wayne. He didn't need to fight here.

"It's Bruce, isn't it?" he asked, and Bruce nodded before allowing himself to be engulfed by his enemy's arms. His legs gave way, and his dead weight dragged them both to the snow covered floor. The Joker held on, and Bruce was surprised by his tenderness. The snow had washed away the blood and half of his make-up, and it was sticking in his hair, melting to cold water and dripping down his neck. He didn't complain, he didn't even mention it when his trousers became saturated by the snow and he started to shiver. Bruce didn't notice, his armour kept the weather out and his head was resting on the Joker's chest because he didn't have the strength to fight him off.

"It'll be alright."

(We'll go back to normal. This won't last. We'll fight again, like we're supposed to.)

"You killed her and she was mine."

Bruce felt the Joker's sigh by the movement in his chest. The Joker felt the weight pull in his stomach at the _deluded _Bat and his efforts to lie to himself. The snow fell harder, blanketing them in white and blocking everything else out. Everything was numb, but it didn't really matter. Not anymore.

The Bat was broken, and the Joker wanted (needed) him back.

"She was _Harvey's_, and I killed him too."


End file.
